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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24270868">i’m a ghost, you’re an angel</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewerpigeon/pseuds/sewerpigeon'>sewerpigeon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anders Being Anders, Anders Being Anders (Dragon Age), Angst, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, M/M, Possession, Spirits, Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, like the fruit of pain is ripe for harvest, this whole ship is just angst man</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:00:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,366</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24270868</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewerpigeon/pseuds/sewerpigeon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>With the death of Leandra, Hawke’s burden of guilt at not being able to protect his family weighs heavily upon his shoulders.  For his mother to have suffered such a cruel and senseless fate fills him with hate and regret; for Anders too to have seen yet another mage fall to madness and hurt the one he loved most in such a sickening way fills him with his own fury—his, and that of the spirit of Justice, who, even after three years, refuses to relent in his insistence that Anders damns himself and their cause in letting Hawke take such space in their mind.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anders/Hawke (Dragon Age), Anders/Hawke/Justice, Anders/Male Hawke</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i’m a ghost, you’re an angel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His bedroom bathed in the vermillion light of the hearth, Hawke felt the fire further warm the well-knit material of his finery, but still he was cold.  It seemed as though ever since he had held his dying mother, the bloodlessness of her skin had absorbed any life left in his own.  Hawke’s hands were too stiff to tremble; he buried his face in his palms.</p><p>To keep his eyes open meant that Hawke had to take in the sights of his home, the place he shared with his mother, the place he fought to give back to her after failing to protect her other two children.  Her touch was embedded in the woodgrain of the bannister; the flowers she had set in a vase in the parlor had not yet even begun to wilt.  It was colder in here for sure, the vacancy of his mother leaving too big a space to keep warm.  How would this ever again feel like home?</p><p>But to close his eyes meant that he had to face again the visions of his mother’s mutilated final state, her eyes clouded and empty as she stared at him from within the body that had already been long dead.  It made him sick to his stomach each and every time he watched again in his mind the half-rotted flesh and limbs bend and lurch horribly toward him under the control of the necromancer.  Hawke had taken the mage’s life for himself, wondering if it had been how Anders felt when Vengeance began to take control—watching yourself from behind a red veil commit acts you would never consider in your own, sound mind.</p><p>Unable to stay up or down, Hawke paced the room once, his muscles weak from the fatigue of battle and the tension of holding himself together.  He stopped before the fireplace where upon the mantle there was a ceramic pot that served no purpose beyond decoration and being expensive.  The tone of the glaze was of a pale shade that reminded him of the sick bastard’s eyes, empty of all but madness.</p><p>Hawke wished he hadn’t killed him, for how he yearned to lavish the man even greater suffering—no, that hadn’t been a man at all.  Nothing like that deserved to claim any shred of humanity.  He was less than a beast, less than the dog shit that caked the corners of Darktown’s alleys.  How Hawke would have loved to make sure that <em> thing </em> was made to feel the very pain and fear inflicted upon each of the women that were slaughtered, tenfold.  And then he’d do it again. </p><p>Fresh shame seeped anew into the very marrow of Hawke’s bones.  No, Mother wouldn’t want more violence.  She wouldn’t want to know he was thinking these terrible things.  <em> I’m proud of you</em>, she’d said, and it hurt Hawke the most to know she had meant it, for he could not bring himself to think she had been right.  After all he had done, it would never outweigh all he had failed to do.  What he’d gained would never be worth what he’d lost.  What good are titles and estates and luxuries and freedoms if the people he had fought so hard to give them to were gone?</p><p>All because of him.</p><p>Hawke swiped the pot from the mantle and in one fluid motion flung it hard across the bedroom.  The clay shattered against a meaningless portrait on the wall, the sudden noise shattering sound barriers as it brought the heavy-framed portrait crashing to the floor with all the tinkling shards.</p><p>As if it had startled him from a trance, Hawke’s legs threatened to buckle beneath him.  He half-fell onto the bed once again, his body all at once weighing more than he could bear.  Elbows propped on his knees, Hawke braced his head once again, and part of him wished he could press hard enough into his temples to burst his own skull if only to permanently be rid of the cycle of still images that ceaselessly flashed in his mind: </p><p>Carver, broken by the Ogre’s fists and left to rot unceremoniously among the increasing swarm of darkspawn.  Hawke couldn’t protect him.  He should have stopped his little brother from charging ahead—he was faster than Carver; surely Hawke couldhave stopped him.  But he didn’t.  He couldn’t.</p><p>Bethany, last seen half-alive as he left her to the whims of the Grey Wardens.  The stink of the Blight beginning to eat away at her at an alarming rate.  The light in her eyes fading even though it had just seemed moments before they were bright with her excitement and determination to follow Hawke into the Deep Roads.  Thinking of Wesley’s demise, Hawke still heard Mother begging Bethany to stay and perfectly recalled the betrayal in her eyes when Hawke had let her come.</p><p>Hawke often still wished he had bid Bethany stay in Kirkwall.  But what good would it have done?  She resented him now anyway, her letters brief and cordial and addressed only to Mother.  His little sister, like her twin, falling prey to the poison and violence and the indiscriminate hunger of the darkspawn.  Hawke standing right there unable to make it stop.  He hadn’t even realized until it was nearly too late.</p><p>It was not the first time he found himself imagining what would have happened if Anders hadn’t been there to find the Warden patrol.  Hawke was torn between gratitude for whatever divine or chaotic influence had placed Hawke and his companions in the same tunnels with the Grey Wardens at the same time, and the remorse of not being able to do anything himself but beg for his sister’s life, whatever the cost.</p><p>Hawke’s throat was dry.  Though Bethany survived, he had taken away his mother’s last two children—his own brother and sister.  Hawke had been the oldest; he had been the one they looked up to and sought to learn from and grow beside.  When their father was gone, it had been Hawke’s duty to take his place and protect his family.  But under his watch, right from under his feet they had all been torn from him, one by one, because Hawke was never fast enough.  He hadn’t been strong enough, and all the treasure in the world he had earned would not take their place, would not make him a better brother, a better son.  He was the only one left, and it was all his fault.  His blades were too short, his stride too slow, his body too weak—Mother had to have been sure of that, too.</p><p>Since the breaking of the decorative pot, the estate had again fallen quite silent save for the hesitant crackles of the fire beside him, but inside Hawke’s head was an uproar of hate and regret and shame and confusion—he wished it had been his own head he’d smashed into the wall, just to get a moment’s reprieve.  But then he further shamed himself, for he could not even face the guilt like a man and live better for it, to keep it with him to remember how he’d failed and how he must always remember to keep from failing again.  How could his companions still trust him?</p><p>The spot of warmth that pricked Hawke’s knee was sudden enough to draw his focus—he’d started crying.  On one hand he knew how good it might feel to just let go and weep, but on the other he felt as if he had no place to lament his misfortunes if he was the one who had failed to prevent them.  Hawke’s jaw remained painfully clenched as he ran a numb hand through his hair, sitting up straight only to see Anders standing a reluctant distance from him, a pained expression of his own conveying deep sympathy, concern, maybe even what looked to be his own regret.  </p><p>At first Hawke was embarrassed of his state, struck with the instinct to pull himself together at once and pretend it was fine, then resenting himself for feeling such a way, and still resenting Anders having come inside to make him feel this way.</p><p>No, it wasn’t Anders’ fault, Hawke reminded himself—if anything, Anders did more than Hawke could; really it had been he who saved Bethany.</p><p>“I know nothing I say could ever change things, or make it better,” said Anders, taking a slow step forward as though approaching a wounded animal.  The silence eroded under his soft tone just enough to bring Hawke back to earth and his gaze back to the floor.  “But you were lucky to have her as long as you did.”</p><p>The patterns of his artisan rug seemed to blur and shift beneath Hawke’s unfocused, unmoving gaze.  “I didn’t do enough to save her,” he thought, only realizing he had said it aloud when Anders moved closer.</p><p>“She wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”</p><p>Hawke scoffed, remembering the venom in Mother’s voice when Carver had been killed, when Bethany did not come home.  “You don’t know my mother.”</p><p>“No,” said Anders, “and I’m sorry I never will.”  He crossed the last few steps and sat beside Hawke at the edge of the bed.  When Hawke made no further move or acknowledgement, Anders glanced briefly at the shattered pot and ruined painting on the far side of the room.  “I know you need someone to be angry at.  Take it out on me, if you need to.  If it will help.”</p><p>Were it any other, Hawke would take no further meaning from those words than a form of condolence.  Not everyone knows what to say.  But Hawke knew Anders too well to underestimate his sincerity, and for a moment it shook him of his grief just long enough to lift his head toward Anders.  For a moment he wasn’t sure if he was about to laugh or cry.  He even considered making a wry remark about Anders always wanting to be the martyr, but no words would come, so his gaze fell again to the floor.</p><p>“I’m here for you,” Anders said softly.  “Whatever you need.”</p><p>There was a pause, and when Hawke said nothing further, Anders moved to leave him alone, but before he’d fully stood a hand quickly but weakly grabbed Anders’ wrist.</p><p>“Wait.”</p><p>Anders again sought Hawke’s eyes, but they were closed, brow furrowed in his distress.  “I don’t want to—I can’t...”  Hawke’s voice cracked and faded into a whisper, barely audible.  “Please stay.”</p><p>Stones were tied around Anders' heart, sinking him back onto the mattress at Hawke’s side.  There was nothing more to be said; Hawke leaned into Anders’ embrace, head resting against his shoulder.  As Anders brought a hand up to stroke his hair, he could feel Hawke shaking from either fatigue or restraint—or both.</p><p>“They’re all gone,” Hawke breathed onto Anders’ collarbone.</p><p>Perhaps to hear himself say it aloud made it real at last, but Hawke had never learned what it meant to give in to the tides of emotion that would grip his frame in a rigid vice.  Anders felt Hawke hold his breath as he fisted the cloth resting under his cold hand over Anders’ own tightening chest.  Anders didn’t know what else he could offer; he knew he could never take the place of family, and for all his healing powers, Anders could never make pain like this be easier.</p><p>Even as he felt Hawke’s muscles beginning to relax against him, the ebbing tension having strained them enough to begin to tire as his breathing slowed, a familiar and unwelcome storm began to form within Anders, the taste of metal forming at the back of his tongue.</p><p><em> You truly think he will remain at your side after this? </em> thundered the voice deep inside Anders’ mind, growing ever more impossible to distinguish from his own.  <em> Look how he seethes; he will never trust the mages again.  He will no longer have faith in our purpose. </em></p><p><em> No, </em> Anders argued with the spirit.  <em> He knows this was the act of a madman, not a mage. </em>  Involuntarily he had begun to tighten his embrace of Hawke as if it were a way to step between them.</p><p>
  <em> And how long until he no longer believes there is a difference?  Do you think he has forgotten the way you wanted to give in? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Shut up. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He is waiting for you to look away so he can run to the Templars, to stop our search for justice! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Shut up! </em>
</p><p>But already Anders was exerting himself just to subdue the swelling anger to whom he could no longer tell it belonged.  He hadn’t noticed he’d closed his eyes until he opened them to see Hawke sitting up beside him, hands resting on either side of Anders’ face as they brought their foreheads together.  Anders raised his own hands to rest one atop Hawke’s, twisting his head to kiss the palm, the other cupping the back of Hawke’s neck bring more than their foreheads together, chiding himself for selfishly claiming a kiss as if it were a means to silence the spirit’s words with Hawke in such a vulnerable state.</p><p>But Hawke did not feel the victim—he feared in the back of his own mind that it was Anders being taken advantage of, having offered Hawke anything and Hawke was asking for this, taking it as much as Anders was giving it to him.  He could almost taste that Anders was beginning to search for his own reprieve, twisting himself so they could pull each other closer to kiss deeper, harder, their breath coming faster as Hawke raised himself to his knees to kiss Anders from above.  For a minute it was nothing but the sounds of their traded breaths and the rustling of fabric as frantic hands searched aimlessly over one another’s frame, each of their minds lost in their own personal darknesses in which the other seemed the only hope of light.</p><p>Hawke was not so naive as to think Anders’ own demons—or spirits, rather—would be so kind as to leave them alone in Hawke’s fresh grief, and he saw the restraint lining the mage’s face as he fought silently to subdue the vengeful spirit’s prodding as Hawke pulled away so they could each catch their breath.</p><p>“Still doesn’t like me much, does he?” Hawke tried to joke at both their expenses, regretting it even as he said it for it might not have been the right thing to say, but they were both a little addled right now, and Anders took less offense than he did feel compelled to apologize, again and again and again.</p><p>But he didn’t get the chance to even begin before Hawke kissed him once more, slower and more deliberate this time, <em> telling </em> him something.  Anders was not so naive to think something so small could truly offer him salvation, but in the moment, he was sure they both sought refuge in the embrace of the other.</p><p>They lie back together on the mattress, too tired and lost to do anything more, but the touch of Anders’ fingers brushing an invisible hair away from Hawke’s face was worth a thousand touches to any other part of him.  </p><p>“I spend too much time thinking about what I could have done differently,” Hawke said quietly, as if to himself.</p><p>Anders laughed ruefully.  “You’re telling me.”</p><p>Hawke’s voice grew softer.  “He’s not you.”</p><p>Guilt began to creep up Anders’ neck.  This wasn’t what Hawke needed now, of all times.  “Don’t worry about me,” he insisted weakly.</p><p>Hawke wished it were that simple.  He wasn’t blind to the way these past three years had been tearing at Anders, his eyes losing much of their lustre, his passions draining into frightful obligation.  Hawke could not help but feel guilt for the loss of his family, but he knew it was at least over.  He’d killed the ogre that killed Carver, he’d consigned Bethany to be saved by the Wardens, and the serial murderer who’d taken his mother was no more.  And it hurt, a lot, to think of what all could have been done to stop any of it from happening, and it would be a long time before Hawke would find a way to forgive himself, but it was over.  All he had left to do was grieve.</p><p>But Anders’ plight had been lifelong, and only growing worse.  Maybe Hawke found it best to deal with his own grief by deflecting his concern onto others, but even so he had begun to worry even before his mother had been killed.  He was not unfamiliar with the persecution of mages; half his life had been about protecting Bethany from the Circle.  But for Anders it was this and more, and Hawke’s instinctive need to <em> do </em> something clawed at him incessantly each time he saw Anders’ agonies grow.  How was he not supposed to worry?</p><p>Hawke raised himself on one arm to hover over Anders and bent to kiss him again, gentle as a whisper until he found himself wanting to deepen the search for something more, to find a solace of his own and to give one to the caring, crazy, attentive, unpredictable, tormented man below him that Hawke would never have pinned as being someone he could love so deeply, so radically, so unconventionally and undeterred by even literal ghosts.  There was hope in holding another person so close, and Hawke was beginning to want nothing more in this moment but to lose himself in that feeling.</p><p>“I love you,” Anders had to sigh, though to break free from the kiss was like being drug back underwater while trying not to drown, and he pulled Hawke closer as though he were the raft to keep him afloat.</p><p><em> He will be our undoing,</em> Justice growled.  <em> He will see you dead, for he will learn you are not you, but we, and he will never fight for us the way we must fight for ourselves! </em></p><p>
  <em> You’re wrong. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>How easily he sacrificed his sister to be rid of the burden of one mage.  You think he will stay so long with you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em> I said, shut up! </em>
</p><p>“I love <em> you</em>,” Hawke echoed, as if hearing the exchange and needing to speak for himself.  “And you are not him.”</p><p>Anders felt riddled with the threat of defeat.  “We are not so separate as you might think.”  For the millionth time the image of the terrified girl’s face cast in the shadow of his raging form flashed in his mind, not unlike Hawke had been replaying the images of his mother’s face in his arms.</p><p>These were tensions familiar to Hawke by now, but it did not perturb him to feel the need to constantly remind Anders he did not believe Justice was any true reflection of Anders.  He and Hawke were in such equally agonized states that it was hard for words to flow between them so easily, their touches turning into desperate clutches, clinging onto each other to keep hold of both themselves as much as the other.</p><p>“I see <em> you,</em>” Hawke insisted.  “He may be part of you, but he will never be all of you.  But Justice would be <em> nothing </em> without you.”</p><p>Anders gave a sad, wry smirk.  “And what would I be without <em> you</em>?  I’m loath to imagine it.”</p><p>It took everything Anders had inside to swallow the rising hate of the spirit inside him whom he felt he could only remember was not his own when Hawke was before him, against him, reminding him of where to keep his head.  But even in the heat of their weary embrace, Hawke’s own exhaustion beginning to send him into the depths of sleep, Anders couldn’t suppress a shiver as Justice thundered his final warning:</p><p>
  <em> He knows nothing of what we are.  Should he ever understand, he will see us as something to be feared and not freed, and when he has left you bleeding on the rotted floor of some forgotten hovel, your dying thoughts will be to finally understand I am all you have ever had, and then even I will be gone. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this particular romance is like all of my favorite angst tropes so ur goddamn right im gonna fixate and milk that shit for what its worth klfjdskkjvjkdfsjgk</p><p>you can follow me on social media @sewerpigeonart!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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